Weasleymore
by MissAlyssa108
Summary: I'm going to Hogwarts. usually if i see OC i aviod it, but i really think this one is weird so you should come read. Please comment, constructive critisism welcome.


Hi! Well this is a little awkward. But, then again, I AM the Queen of all awkwardness.

I suppose I should introduce myself. Although no one seems to have known there was yet ANOTHER Weasley, there is, and hey, it's me, youngest of all.

I grew up in a family everyone recognizes, yet somehow, everyone has looked over me for all these years. I suppose it's due to my height, but I wouldn't mention it unless you want to find yourself hexed silly. I am very proud that, even now, as an adult, I have stubbornly remained under five feet.

Uncle Harry has always teased me about my glasses. I have never understood it, Mum has often told me he had them in his Hogwarts days and she even had to Reparo them once. Every telling of that story, I laugh extra hard at my dear Uncle's expense, not only did he have glasses, he was completely helpless without them, at least mine are mainly readers and I often remove them for comfort or protection.

As the youngest, I was often unthinkingly excluded. My closest cousin has always been Lily, because she actually listens to me, and everyone else has always viewed me as the baby. Unfortunately, Lily was very popular at Hogwarts and so… No I'll get into all of that later.

But, seriously, here's some stuff you need to know:

I am the second daughter of Ronald Bilius Weasley and Hermione Jean Granger Weasley. Hugo is my older brother of four years, and Rose two years above him. I have the signature red hair, though now it has darkened into more of an auburn, and it is the only part of me that resembles my family, besides the ever preset freckles. I am book-smart, bespectacled, clumsy, and very short. I am Aeryn Weasley and this, this is my story. Of my Hogwarts days. Of how I became who I am today.

We are going to start at the beginning. Ready for the ride?

So there I was, at the start of any witch or wizards learning experience, wand shopping. Of course Daddy was avoiding flourish and blots. Books had, and always would be mum's lot and so it came to be that as she was off with my siblings getting all the standard supplies for a Hogwarts school year (i.e. books, quills, potion ingredients, robes…) Daddy was in charge of showing me the true wonders of Dagon Ally: Ollivander's Wand shop and the Owl Emporium.

When we arrived at Ollivander's, I was grateful to find it empty, due to Mum's foresight in planning the trip before the fall crowds truly hit the Wizarding shopping center. Mr. Ollivander had now passed on, but had left the shop in the capable hands of his son, Rupert. When we were greeted by the new Head Wandmaker, Dad looked a little forlorn. At the time I didn't register it or consider the cause of it. Later, I learned it was because Mr. Ollivander had been so abused in Malfoy Manor during the War, which I only learned of before my Fourth year,

Despite the family's prestigious name, the new ollivander was still attempting to build up his reputation, he had a only been in charge for seven years at that time. I had complete faith in him, because Rose and Hugo's wands had come for his store. Some of Old Mr. Ollivander's wands remained on the shelf, having not yet found the right witch or wizard, supplemented by the newer wands made by the young, but capable hands of his son. Rupert was a very skilled wandmaker and an expert in wandlore at a young age, he was younger than my parents who were decidedly middle-aged, now both nearing 40.

The process of finding the right wand took a very long time. Before we found it, we had tried ten others and made a complete mess of the orderly shop. I was becoming more and more frantic as each wand, in its turned, failed, some with a bang, but most (disturbingly) with less than a fizzle. Over half of the wands flat out refused to do anything in my grasp, not even a small pop or some smoke.

I was visibly upset by the eighth, and both Dad and Mr. Ollivander reassured me. After the tenth had failed quite epically, cracking the lamp on the counter, Mr. Ollivander said it was not unusual to try over a dozen wands before finding yours. Often, he ventured, it even marked and exceptional wizard or witch to require such a choosy wand. Despite his words, I was losing hope. The wands were all fine specimens, and there was no fault with their make. The problem couldn't rest in them, I mused, but within myself. What if, I wondered dejectedly, I turned out to be the only squib in the family?

Of course I was being silly. At that age, I possessed, as mum would say, the greatest ability to jump to the most astounding and completely unsupported conclusions. I had showed signs of magical ability since before I could remember. Dad and my siblings all say my temper tantrums were always something to see, and also a bit dangerous. As a toddler , though my temper began to slowly improve, the magical signs continued. But, in the stressful situation ,my mind had forgotten the technicalities and when into full panic mode.

Mr. Ollivander boxed up the latest failure. He put it back in its place. Pacing for a time, increasing my nerves, Rupert suddenly came to a halt, and then shot to the back of the wand shelves. Was he running away from the enigma that was me? My Dad disagreed, and said the wandmaker had probably thought of a solution. He kept his opinion that the senior Ollivander must have been much better, never needing this much time for customers, to himself. At his age, he had finally learned some tact, albeit a very small amount.

When Mr. Ollivander returned to the front desk, he cradled an ancient looking box, the lid was a worn grey colour, the edges had become undefined and were peeling, the outer paper was becoming fuzzy, all in all, it was barely holding on. He carefully removed the very fragile-looking lid, tucked in under the box as he set it down on the counter with something very close to revernce.

"This is the one of the oldest wands in the shop." He stated unessicarily, "It was the first wand my father made solo. He collected the wood himself. Acacia, Unicorn hair core, Eleven inches, Slightly yielding." My eleven-year-old self had enough sense to be honoured. He held it out to me, and I took it with a sense of solemnity I rarely possessed. It was not at all dark, lighter than all my previous wands, and quite a bit longer than the others. I smiled softly and swooshed it slowly through the air, as if drawing swirls on a paper, and finally pointed it at the stack of papers the Holly wand had sent every which way.

A soft russle began and quickly subsided. Without knowing quite how it came to be, we saw that the stack had been reformed perfectly, without a corner out of place. Upon further inspection, it was verified that the papers were also alphabetized according to customer name and cataogorized by the purpose of each form. We came to expect that the papers had quickly collected into a group and the stacked themselves by entering the newly-forming pile at the bottom, rather than the more obvious top. No flying or showing off, merely rectifying the problem as efficiently as possible. A small part of me was disappointed, I loved razzle dazzle magic. I was informed my wand did not, as was a bit of a contradiction within itself. I began to have a singular view on my wand that day. It was respect, I knew that it would needed to be handled with care. It could prove to be quite a challenge to master, and would not hesitate to put me in my place. It would prove to be the sensible one in the team. I was glad that my wand seemed to have a sense of subtlety, for I decidedly did not.


End file.
